by Hayley White
“With Sabrina.”
Brooke started to speak, hesitated, then said, “It was the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen.”
Stroud smiled slightly. “I take it this is your first S/M party.”
“Ah... yes. Yes it is.” Brooke’s mouth clenched in a brief, self-conscious smile. “I didn’t really know what I was walking into.”
That mild smile was still on Stroud’s lips. “Perhaps you’d like to go somewhere, for a night cap? Or coffee?”
“A... yeah,” Brooke said. “Yes. I think I would.”
They had not parted until three o’clock the next morning. Stroud talked of his long standing interest in what he referred to as ‘the scene’ and Brooke voiced question after question, his fascination growing with each new revelation.
They talked on other subjects, too, especially Stroud’s involvement in the European art world, and the unlikely pair had become fast friends.
The sound of female laughter snapped Brooke out of his reverie. It was twelve fifteen and there was Ever, still looking crisp and fresh in her immaculate tuxedo shirt and black skirt. His heart skipped at the sight of her.
She was standing with another woman dressed just like her, talking. He was about to tap his car horn to get her attention when they moved off together toward one of only three cars left in the lot. She was apparently going to ride home with the other woman.
His hand went for the door handle. Perhaps he could approach and, if necessary, compel her to go with him. Ever climbed into the passenger seat of the other car, closed the door and the sound of their sparkling voices was abruptly cut off. Brooke slumped back in his seat, surprised at the intensity of his disappointment as he watched them reverse out of the parking space and drive out of the lot.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Brooke was consistent with Ever’s driving lessons. He brought the Escort over four times a week and quizzed Ever from the rule book. It was decided they’d go to pick out a car on Ever’s first day off, once she got her license.
By the end of August she was ready. The Escort was available for her driving test and, although nervous, Ever passed without a problem. They were both pretty delighted with themselves on the drive back to Stroud’s house. Ever pulled into the driveway and they remained in the car, mutually savoring the moment.
“So. Monday’s the day.”
“Yeah,” Ever sighed, still gripping the wheel.
“What’s the matter, mouse?”
“I’m a little nervous about it.”
“What’s to be nervous about? You passed your test with flying colors. You’re ready to go.”
“I know. But a different car...”
“I thought you’d decided on an Escort.”
“I have.”
“An Escort’s an Escort,” Brooke pointed out.
“Yes,” Ever said, “but I’ve grown used to this little car.” She patted the dashboard with uniquely feminine sentimentality. “It’ll be hard getting used to another one.”
“You won’t have to get used to another one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, this is the car you’ll be buying – if you really want it.”
“This one?”
“It’s all set. I took care of the preliminaries. The car’s been checked, top to bottom. Sound as a dollar. The deal’s a go, if you are. Your signature on the dotted line and you’ll be a car owner.”
Ever sagged with the sweetest look he’d ever seen on her face. “Oh Brooke...”
“Don’t get all sloppy on me,” he warned. “It’s a good car at the right price. No big deal.”
Tears stood in her eyes as Ever threw her arms around him. “You’re incredible,” she cried. “How can I ever repay you?”
“Unconditional obedience.”
Ever pulled back. “You lout!” she laughed, smacking him.
Brooke grinned back, nodding and feeling damned good at being able to do something nice for her.
***
The license and car increased the scope of Ever’s independence. She no longer had to rely on anyone for rides to and from work or even the supermarket. She was once again self-sufficient and Brooke could see there was no need to check up on her so frequently. No need, apart from his own.
Despite the fact that Ever had confided a love for him, he knew her heart really belonged to Stroud. Brooke shared Ever’s loneliness for their absent companion. This bond provided an acceptable excuse for his continuing visits, but Brooke was becoming suspicious of his own motives. Stroud had been gone for six weeks, with no signs of returning soon. The span he bridged between Brooke and Ever had already narrowed quite a bit and Brooke felt it would be prudent to allow a little emotional distance between Ever and himself.
But Brooke was too preoccupied with his own moral dilemma to get a clear perception of Ever’s state of mind. She, like Brooke, was very aware of how long Stroud had been away. She was proud of her accomplishments over the past month and a half but, as August wound up and September began, each passing day seemed to sap a little more of her self-confidence.
She was plagued with fears about the future. She began to doubt the seriousness of her relationship with Stroud, the level of his commitment to her and his life in the United States. After all, he was a European man with a taste for European culture.
True, he had stayed away from his homeland for five years. He could have returned at any time and hadn’t. This crisis had called him back, perhaps before he was ready, but nevertheless he was there now. Back in the familiar surroundings of his upbringing. Amid the elegance and glamour only the rich traditions of the old country could offer. Enjoying the social and cultural advantages to be found in sophisticated Parisian women. Parisian galleries. Beautiful, seductive. Paris – where he had lived with his beloved Francine.
What could induce him to return to this brash city where culture was so cultivated the end result was self-conscious pretension?
And the mouse from the other side of the tracks? A temporary distraction from his lingering grief until Paris, his true love, should whisper the right words, find the right tone to lure him back to her warm bosom.
And Nicole. Dear Nicole, right there to lend support and comfort. Nicole, so convenient.
Ever, who loved not one, but two. Ever, losing faith, losing hope, losing grip on the crumbling rim of a dark well full of doubt and self recrimination. Ever – who had no idea how close love really was.
Chapter Twenty Nine
He’d stayed away a week. A week was long enough. After all, he’d made a promise to Stroud. He’d made a promise.
He smiled to himself as he turned the corner and started up the short path through the back garden. Security conscious little mouse. All the blinds were shut tight, but he could see the downstairs lights were on. It was past one o’clock and Brooke knew it was rude to turn up so late but it didn’t stop him from knocking on Ever’s door. She was up and came to the door within moments.
“It’s you,” she said without surprise and, in two words, Brooke knew this was not the rigidly composed, apprehensive slave who fought so hard for self control. Nor was it the smooth mannered, soft spoken wine hostess in her crisp tuxedo shirt. Least of all did it resemble the wary eyed mouse who’d haunted the streets down near the shore.
This was a tired, disheveled woman showing the signs of approaching middle age, dressed in worn jeans and a wrinkled, over large shirt. It was a steaming cauldron of bitterness. And she was drunk on her ass.
“Come in,” she said, swinging the door wider. “You’ll insist, anyway. My duty to oblige you, while the master’s away.”
Brooke could have argued the point but decided to come in anyway. She’d wandered off toward the kitchenette, leaving him to close the door.
“Your timing’s perfect,” she said, now at the fridge. “Care for a drink? I’m opening a bottle.”
“Don’t open a bottle on my account.”
“It’s not on your acc
ount, believe me.”
“I didn’t especially come for a drink.”
“What did you come for?”
“Just to see you.”
“Ah, yes. Every time I turn around, there you are. The ever present Brooke. You didn’t bring your whip!”
She carried the bottle over and picked up the corkscrew beside the emptied glass and bottle on the dining table.
Brooke took a seat on the couch and watched as Ever stabbed the cork, twisting the screw into it, as though deboweling some beast.
“Are you drinking, or what?”
“Yes,” he said, suddenly thinking he’d better. He rose and crossed to the kitchen cupboard for a glass.
The place was a mess. Dishes heaped in the sink, trash can about to overflow, sticky glass rings on the tables, a litter of odds and ends strewn about the living room, ashtrays piled with butts. She slopped a serving of wine into his glass and topped up the two gulps she’d already taken from her own before repairing to the floor by the coffee table, across from the couch.
“What’s been going on?” he asked.
“What does it look like? It’s a party.”
Brooke nodded without comment.
“Don’t stand over me like that,” she said, depositing the bottle atop a sloppy stack of papers on the coffee table. “Come sit down, if you’re staying.”
Brooke resumed his seat on the couch and sipped his wine.
“One should be comfortable at a party, don’t you think?”
Brooke nodded again, but he was anything except comfortable. He’d never imagined Ever capable of making him feel this way. She put down her glass long enough to shake a cigarette loose of the box and light it, then drank down half her glassful.
“Isn’t this cheery?” she remarked with a frosty smile, but Brooke just stared. “What’s on your mind, sport?”
“You seem a little out of sorts,” Brooke ventured.
“What makes you say that?”
“I’ve never seen you like this,” he said, sipping again.
“Oh, well. Nothing but the real me, darling.”
“I hardly think so.”
“As if you’d know.”
There was a cold clarity to her stare that pierced him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sipping more wine. “You’re right.”
“‘Course,” Ever said, tossing back the remains in her glass.
As she reached for the bottle, Brooke’s eyes landed on the stack of pages on the table. “Stroud tells me you’re writing a book,” he said suddenly.
“Tells you everything, I suppose,” she sniped, proffering the bottle. “More?”
Brooke was surprised to see his drink was half gone. “Okay,” he said, reaching his glass across. A few drops spilled on the papers as Ever poured. “He said he read your manuscript.”
“That’s right.”
“I’d really like to see it,” Brooke admitted, sitting back again.
“I’ll bet you would,” Ever said, pinning him with a dark, taunting eye.
“I guess that’s a ‘no’,” Brooke said, holding her gaze.
“Hell. Show you my book? I never dreamed of such a thing!”
“Why not?”
Ever broke off eye contact, for the first time relinquishing the upper hand. She stared into her glass a number of moments before she suddenly got to her feet. Brooke believed she was finally going to throw him out. She snatched up the wine bottle, grabbed the papers off the coffee table and carelessly tossed the stack into his lap.
“So read it,” she said, almost angrily. “Sate your curiosity.”
Taking the bottle, her glass and cigarettes, Ever withdrew to the dining table where she sat, drinking and smoking in grim silence while Brooke carefully turned over the manuscript and cast his eyes down at the cover page.
Courses
There was more to the manuscript than there had been when Stroud read it, but Brooke didn’t know that. He read the whole thing without pause, so engrossed he forgot the wine that grew tepid in his glass. When he’d done, he raised his head, feeling as though he was stepping out of a dream. The pages of the manuscript were stacked in a neat pile on the couch beside him. Ever was staring at the empty bottle on the dining table before her.
“What does Stroud think of this?” he asked.
“He seemed to think it was pretty good,” Ever replied. She pinned Brooke with a bleary eye, but refrained from soliciting his opinion.
Brooke didn’t know how good it was but it was a hot book. Nothing like he’d expected it to be. Nothing at all. He wanted more.
“Is this all there is?”
“Yep.”
“When will it be finished?”
“Couldn’t say. I’ve stopped working on it.”
“Why?”
“Ran out of paper.”
Brooke nearly laughed, then he realized she wasn’t joking. Not about the paper. She’d stopped working on it for some other reason. A reason related to the state she was in tonight. The clock read three forty-five.
He picked up the precious pages and carefully set them back on the coffee table. “It’s late,” he said, standing, “and I think you’ve had enough for tonight.”
“Ah. We’re really progressing.”
“Progressing?”
“You’ve started doing my thinking for me.”
“I’m putting you to bed,” he said, taking her glass to the kitchen. Ever was still slumped at the dining table as he approached. “You’re off Sunday and Monday, is that right?”
“Sunday and Monday.”
He took Ever’s arm as she stood and guided her up the stairs. “I’ll be here Sunday morning and you will continue work on your writing.”
“I will, will I?”
“Yes,” Brooke said, helping her off with her clothes. “And don’t worry,” he said, slipping her nightgown over her head. “I’ll be staying until Monday evening to see that you do work.”
“Oh, you will?”
“Absolutely,” Brooke assured her, pulling back the sheet. “Into bed.”
“Domineering little prick,” she muttered, flopping onto the mattress. “What makes you think I’ll even open the door for you?”
Ever was out almost the instant her head hit the pillow. Brooke went downstairs where he spent an extra hour before killing the lights and pulling the door shut behind him. He went to check on the main house before he left and found it impeccably clean and empty. So very empty.
Chapter Thirty
At nine-thirty Sunday morning there was a knock at the door. Cursing, Ever dragged herself out of bed, groped for a robe and went downstairs. Brooke was standing at the door, a large box in his arms.
“What are you doing here?”
“I told you I was coming, or had you forgotten?”
Yes, she’d forgotten.
“Open the damn door. This thing is heavy.”
“What the hell is it?” she demanded, stepping back to admit him.
The box thumped heavily to the floor. “Ten reams of paper,” Brooke exclaimed. “An end to your excuses.”
Ever stared at the box. The sight of it should have overwhelmed her with excitement. She felt only fear.
“I told you. I’ve stopped work on the book.”
“That was Wednesday. This is Sunday, the day you continue work.”
She closed the door quietly. There was a pause.
“‘Brooke, can I offer you some coffee?’,” he asked and answered himself. “Love some!”
“Huh?”
“Sit down.”
Brooke made coffee for two and joined Ever at the dining table. They sat across from each other in silence, Brooke studying Ever, Ever avoiding his gaze.
“I’ve lost the desire to complete the book,” she said softly.
“Why is that?”
“No reason. Out of ideas. No motivation.”
“Do you know how the story ends?”
“I have an idea.”
“Then work back from the end. You have nearly a whole manuscript already.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Irrelevant.”
“Look - I’m blocked. Get it? No way to get back to it. Okay?”
“No.”
Brooke glanced around. The soiled, dog-eared manuscript was still on the coffee table, now serving as a place mat for a dirty ashtray. He went over and picked it up.
“This is an exciting, well written story. Poetry! And just look at the state of it? You don’t treat something this beautiful like trash for the recycling center!”
Ever stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Is this text entered?”
“Entered?”
“In the computer.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then I’ll tell you how you get back into it. You take your sweet behind upstairs and you reprint this. Every syllable. A crisp, clean copy, and you shred every page of this pathetic excuse not to go on. Then you glue your butt to the chair until the next sentence comes. And the next. You’re going to finish this story if I have to motivate you with the back of a hairbrush. Capice?”
Ever nodded.
“So march!”
Brooke followed her upstairs, carrying the paper. It didn’t surprise him to see another half carton of it on the floor by the desk.
“Boot up and start printing,” he commanded and Ever obediently switched on the computer. Brooke stood by and monitored every page the printer spit out, a bright excitement burning in him. And, true to his words, he made her shred all the old pages.
“Okay,” he said, picking up the shredding bin for disposal. “Sit down and get started.”
Ever plopped into the chair and stared at the empty screen.
“This isn’t going to work.”
“Work being the only operative word in that sentence,” Brooke countered.
She was still staring at the blank screen when he returned with the emptied bin and two fresh coffees... and still, after he’d selected a paperback from the shelf and settled down in the easy chair a few feet behind her, between the bookshelves and the unmade bed. She placed her hands on the keyboard – but nothing. Nothing.
“Brooke—”
“What? Another excuse?”